


Lost in the Supermarket

by bluebacchus



Category: The Musketeers (2014), The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: "war crimes", Acts of Devotion, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover Pairings, Fitzier dads, Grimaud vs Grocery Store, M/M, canon-typical Grimaud violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26951497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus
Summary: Being a private litigator, in Grimaud’s experience, requires a great attention to detail, impeccable planning, and the occasional tire iron applied to his rivals’ kneecaps. It has never, however, required him to sit next to Feron in the second row of a Ralph Lauren fashion show at Somerset House.(Lucien Grimaud meets a fashion designer named Thomas Jopson, falls in love, and goes to the grocery store)
Relationships: Lucien Grimaud/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey GrimJop discord, this one's for you. Thanks for enabling me (and thanks x2 to oochilka for the art which has been my phone background for weeks)
> 
> <https://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/630372853863350272/grimaud-and-jopson-go-grocery-shopping>  
> 

Someone is suing Ralph Lauren for war crimes.

“Who is Ralph Lauren? Grimaud had asked when Gaston slid the case file across his desk.

“You don’t deserve this case,” Gaston had snarled, clutching at his hideous Gucci polo shirt like it was about to flee in indignation.

Grimaud had propped his steel-toed booted feet up on his desk and stared at Gaston until he yelped and retreated back to reception.

He read the case. He still didn’t know who Ralph Lauren was when he finished.

He later found out, as he did most things, through a convoluted phone call with Feron.

“We must go to the fashion show tonight,” Feron said dramatically over the phone. Grimaud was driving at the time, and he counted Feron lucky that he couldn’t see his expression.

“How is that anything but a waste of time?” Grimaud grumbled, loud enough that he knew Feron was deliberately ignoring him when he continued,

“Pick me up at six and we will begin our reconnaissance, Lucien. May I remind you that I pay your wages?”

“Your _brother_ pays my wages,” Lucien mumbled, this time quiet enough that Feron would not hear over the clamour of London traffic. “Six,” he repeated, before honking his horn at a bicycle cop, making him lose his balance and steer his bike into a lamppost.

Grimaud chuckled darkly at Officer D’Artagnan’s misfortune, and hung up on Feron.

Being a private litigator, in Grimaud’s experience, requires a great attention to detail, impeccable planning, and the occasional tire iron applied to his rivals’ kneecaps. It has never, however, required him to sit next to Feron in the second row of a Ralph Lauren fashion show at Somerset House.

“Wheel me to the bar, Lucien,” Feron demands, sitting up straight in his gaudy gold wheelchair like it is a throne.

“The show is going to start.”

Feron looks around, noting the full rows of chairs and _humph_ s.

“Then leave me here-- alone, decrepit, and vulnerable-- and go fetch me a glass of wine.”

Grimaud scowls, but steps over Feron to go to the bar set up outside the hall where the show takes place. He’s glad Feron has to park his wheelchair on the edge of the row. It’s easier for him to step out without drawing too much attention to himself. Not that he would: the audience is full of celebrities, models, and fashion executives that are all itching to schmooze with one another after the show. Grimaud has no time for any of them. He orders two glasses of their most expensive red (Louis is paying and Grimaud is slowly going to bleed him dry if it’s the last thing he does) and returns, stepping over Feron again as the first model walks down the runway.

“Take me to the restroom, Lucien. I wish to take some Dilaudid.”

“I thought you wanted to watch the show.”

“But the pain! Oh, you don’t know pain like I do, Lucien.”

_I’ll show you pain,_ Lucien thinks, imagining leaping on the stage, grabbing the model’s decorative riding crop, and whacking Feron across the face with it. Or better yet, smothering him with preppy striped polo sweaters until he can’t hear him complain. Or maybe—

“Excuse me,” a soft voice from behind him says, “but would you please shut up? You’re very rude.”

Feron recoils from the shock of being called out and Grimaud snorts, nodding his thanks at the man behind him. He catches a glimpse of dark hair and pale eyes before the man leans back in his chair.

The show finishes, and apparently it was good because all around them, people leap to their feet and applaud. The man behind him is clapping so hard Grimaud can feel the air displaced by his hands like wind against his neck. Before the room begins clearing out, Grimaud grabs hold of Feron’s chair and pushes him to the lavatory.

“Go do your drugs,” Grimaud says, pushing him through the door. “I will collect you later.”

“What will you do, Lucien?” Feron asks. He pulls out a pill bottle and shakes it like a maraca.

Lucien shuts the door and takes a deep breath through his nose. He’ll do something useful, certainly, but mostly he just wants to be alone.

“Your friend talks a lot, no?”

The man who was sitting behind him is offering him a flute of champagne. Grimaud looks at it for a moment before choosing to ignore the offered drink. The man shrugs and takes a sip. He grimaces. He puts the glass back on the tray.

“He’s a burden,” Grimaud says, nodding to the lavatory. A line is forming outside the door.

The man raises his eyebrows. “That’s not a kind thing to say.”

“I am not a kind man.”

He looks at the man, then. They’re around the same height, but where he is broad in the shoulder and chest, the other man is slender. His suit jacket hugs the straight line of his waist. Underneath it, he is wearing an orange floral shirt that he manages to pull off under the eggplant-coloured suit. It’s unbuttoned past his sternal notch, and Grimaud can’t help but drag his eyes over smooth, even-toned skin and up to the pale eyes that watch him keenly.

“At least you aren’t rude enough to talk through the beginning of a major runway show, ruining the atmosphere for everyone around you,” the man says with a smile.

Grimaud’s mouth twitches in what comes as close to a smile as he gets these days. “Imagine having to deal with him every day.”

“Dreadful. He’s your--?”

Grimaud presses his lips together. “Employer. His brother owns the law firm in Paris where I am employed.”

The man’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, I was hoping it was Parisian French I was hearing! My uncle only speaks the Canadian variant. I’d like to live in Paris one day,” he adds as an afterthought.

Grimaud gives the man another look over. “You are a model?”

He laughs once, looking down at his shoes. They are immaculate white leather boots with a gold buckle on the side, not a scuff on them.

“I’m on the creative team here,” he says. Grimaud’s confusion must be plain, because he points to one of the models, a blonde woman with elaborately coiffed hair wearing the only outfit that Grimaud thought showed any creativity in the entire collection. “See Sophy over there? I designed her outfit. And made it, I suppose, though Billy helped sew the shorts.”

“You are very talented,” Grimaud says without thinking. “You do not have your own…” he searches for the word in English. “Clothing? Fashion shows?”

“My own label? Oh no, I don’t have that kind of business experience. Or the space, or the money to start, but I really would love to one day! Thomas Jopson, fashion designer.” This is accompanied by an action that Grimaud understands is called ‘jazz hands’.

“It does sound nice, doesn’t it?”

“Thomas Jopson,” Grimaud repeats. “My name is Lucien Grimaud. I am a private litigator in Paris.”

“Oh! Are you here about the lawsuit?”

“You know of it?”

Jopson bites at his lower lip. “I’m not supposed to,” he says. “My father was in the industry. He keeps in touch.”

Grimaud reaches into his back pocket to pull out a business card. Simple white text on a matte black background shows his name and phone number (he has another set of business cards, red on white, that don’t give his name and offer a very different service that involves more knives). He hands it to Jopson.

“If you would like to share,” he says.

“I won’t need to tell you,” Jopson says. “Come to Fashion Week and I’ll show you.”

He’s doing his job, Grimaud tells himself. He’s doing his research and he’ll write everything up into a neat little report and give it to Feron by tomorrow morning and they’ll win the case. Professionalism is the only reason he slides into his best leather trousers (“If it wasn’t for who you are as a person I’d say they look sexy,” Gaston had said one day when he wore them to the office), leaves the top two buttons on his maroon dress shirt undone, and steals the brown velvet blazer off a passing off-duty Officer Aramis after hitting him over the head from behind with a bag of frozen peas.

It has absolutely nothing to do with Thomas Jopson.

He definitely isn’t dressing up to impress him. Grimaud has never tried to impress anybody in his life and he isn’t about to start with a fashion designer (who, admittedly, did impress him when he told Feron to shut up).

It just wouldn’t hurt to look like he fits in.

He finds Jopson talking to the blonde model he had pointed out before. She has a hand daintily laid on his elbow as she sips champagne and laughs at something Jopson is saying. Their heads are bent together as the model scrolls through something on her phone, tilting it so Jopson can see. Then the blonde looks up and sees him glowering by the cocktail sausages. She nudges Jopson with a smile and then he looks up, and Grimaud doesn’t have a chance to fake a smile before he approaches him.

“You came!” Jopson says. He’s dressed down this time, wearing only a red brocade waistcoat over a thin white shirt with billowing bishop sleeves and a pair of trousers that are perfectly tailored to his slim hips.

“I did,” Grimaud says, trying not to notice how nice Jopson smells. Smoky, but with something sweet and cozy underneath. It stands out despite the number of people milling about in the canopy-covered lawn of Somerset House.

“Your work must be important to you,” Jopson says. He fiddles with the button on the cuff of his sleeve.

“I hoped to see more of your work as well,” Grimaud says. He doesn’t know why he says it; he _is_ here to gather information about the case. But Jopson looks up from his cuff and smiles at him, and Grimaud realizes he couldn’t care less about Feron’s prosecution.

Later, after the speeches and toasts and runway show (Gucci; Grimaud recognizes the name from Gaston’s ugly brown suit with the little ‘G’s all over it.), Jopson takes him by the hand and leads him to the pop-up bar near the back of the tent. He waves at some of the models including, Grimaud notes with annoyance, and incredibly handsome older man with the most luscious hair Grimaud has ever seen. He’s still wearing the powder blue riding jacket and jodhpurs that he closed the runway show with. He blows Jopson a kiss.

“My uncle James,” Jopson says. He tugs his hand free. Grimaud hadn’t noticed how hard he was squeezing it. “His wife was Saint-Laurent’s muse for years. Ann Coulman?”

Grimaud shakes his head. “I yield to your expertise, Monsieur Jopson.”

“Thomas, please.” He leans against the bar, and immediately the bartender appears. “Do you have any French reds, Billy?”

Billy nods silently and takes a moment to look at Grimaud with disapproval before turning and pouring two glasses of wine. If anyone looked at Grimaud like that in any other situation, they would end up with a shattered tibia. But Thomas pushes a stemless glass of red wine into his hand and sits on a leather chaise, legs stretched out in front of him.

“We won’t have to wait long,” Thomas says.

“For what?”

“For your evidence, Monsieur. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Grimaud nods, but curls his fingers until his nails dig into his palm. It’s not like him to get distracted. He sits next to Thomas, listening closely to him as he points out different people. He can hear Thomas fine, but he points to his bad ear (shot off in a particularly vicious lawsuit against one Mr. Disney) and leans in closer. The smell of Thomas’s cologne is definitely not the reason.

Then Thomas’s eyes go wide and he turns his face directly into Grimaud’s shoulder, burying his face against his chest when he turns in surprise.

“Don’t look,” he says. “I don’t want to deal with my dads tonight.”

“Your--?”

“Oh, thank god,” Jopson says. The luscious-haired man in the blue Gucci suit is crossing the floor and punches a man in a red suit in the shoulder. “Uncle James will keep them occupied for hours. I thought we were going to have to pretend to snog or something, like in the films.”

He laughs nervously. Grimaud says nothing. He hopes he looks stoic and not like his brain has just shorted out imagining how Jopson’s lips would taste.

Jopson doesn’t seem to notice the whirring in his brain and nudges him.

“You see that red and white striped polo shirt James—dad James, not Uncle James-- is wearing?”

Lucien follows the nod of Thomas’s head to a tall square-jawed man dressed in some sort of denim ensemble over the striped shirt. He nods, gaze lingering on the pleated denim culottes that brush the tops of his gold cowboy boots. He stands next to the luscious-haired man and the shorter man in the red suit.

“Ralph threw it at Sir John Franklin at an Oscars afterparty,” Thomas says.

“And?”

“And that’s it,” Thomas says, smile playing around his lips. “Sophy, his niece, is finishing her Masters in International Relations and mentioned that firing on a withdrawing enemy is a war crime and Uncle John… well, Uncle John has started taking things very personally in his old age.”

“So he’s suing Ralph Lauren for war crimes?”

“Because he tossed a polo shirt at him, yes.”

Grimaud huffs and turns back to Jopson. “How did you know that man would wear that shirt tonight?”

Jopson shrugs and smiles, though he looks away. “If he didn’t, I would have made you come back tomorrow.”

“Is that—“ Grimaud clears his throat. “Is that what you would like? To see me tomorrow?”

Jopson looks past him to the raised catwalk. “If you have the time, I meant to say. Or any interest beyond the case. I have… I have a few looks showing tomorrow night. If you were interested.”

Uneasiness does not become Jopson, so Grimaud does not think about his answer before he nods. “I will be there,” he says, and he knows he will.

Lucien thinks it might be a date.

He doesn’t do well with the unknown, so he decides that it is a date, that Thomas is interested in him, and though he’s not going to push, he is going to be as well-behaved and charming as he knows he can be. (He’s good at pretending for the sake of the job.) This decision is abruptly changed when he looks in his closet and is met with a sea of black, leather, and black leather (and a purple Black Sabbath hoodie that he wears on Sundays).

Grimaud is not happy to be here at ten in the morning. He wouldn’t be happy to be standing in Feron’s bedroom at any hour of the day, but at ten a.m. Feron is especially dramatic.

“How dare you awaken me from a fitful slumber?” he moans. Grimaud ignores him and wrenches open his wardrobe doors. Feron, at least, dresses more tastefully than his brothers.

“Fetch me coffee, would you Lucien?” Feron says. “I will find you a suitable outfit for your date tonight.”

“It’s not a date,” Grimaud says reflexively. “It’s research for the case.”

Feron shakes his head. “Lucien, Lucien, _Lucien._ You washed your hair for this. It must mean you care.”

“He could be a valuable ally,” Grimaud mumbles. He goes to make coffee, if just to escape Feron’s knowing stare, and wonders if this was Feron’s plan to get coffee brought to him in bed all along.

Feron may not be completely useless, Grimaud thinks. Thomas drops his drink when he sees him across the tent. White wine splashes up the bare leg of a pale blond-haired man in very small shorts the colour of raw salmon. He turns. They say RALPH across the arse in white varsity print. Fitting, Grimaud thinks, since they make him want to ralph.

“Lucien,” Thomas says. His cheeks are pink. Grimaud shifts uncomfortably, and not just because Feron’s shirt is a size too small for him. It hugs his chest obscenely tight, splashing its gold and purple brocade against his torso underneath the leather waistcoat (that, at least, fits). He’s wearing a pair of Feron’s suit trousers that hug his legs all the way down. They feel like a wetsuit. (“Slim cuts are in, Lucien. You’re not fooling anyone into thinking you’re bigger than you are with your giant baggy trousers.”)

“You look amazing,” Thomas says. His eyes linger on Lucien’s legs, then on his chest, then on his lips. Lucien licks them, worried that the lip balm Feron smeared across his mouth made his mouth look shiny. Thomas flushes.

“So do you,” Grimaud says. It seems like the right thing to say. It’s true, even. Thomas is in a suit again, but this one is patterned like an old lady’s sofa. It’s mostly shades of green, but there are small pink flowers embroidered on the fabric. He looks very dashing and not at all like an old lady’s sofa. His immaculate white boots are back, and when he takes Grimaud’s arm and directs them towards their seats, Grimaud tugs his arm and saves him and his boots from stepping on a fallen piece of smoked salmon covered in an unappealing orange sauce.

“Watch your boots,” he says, so Thomas doesn’t think that he’s an exceedingly violent man who yanks his dates around by the arm.

Thomas beams up at him. “Thank you.”

Grimaud nods stiffly and ignores the warm feeling of satisfaction that settles over his shoulders.

Lucien enjoys the show, or at least that’s what he tells Thomas.

“You’re flattering me,” Thomas says. He had squeezed Lucien’s hand four separate times when models began to walk down the runway, indicating which outfits he had designed.

“Your looks stand out miles above the rest,” Lucien responds. “Especially the vile RALPH shorts.”

“I don’t know,” Thomas says, dipping his head modestly. “I think the flat-felled seams on the military dress are predictable and overdone. I was going to sew fringe into them instead.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Lord Ralph demanded it.”

“You do not have creative freedom?”

Thomas shrugs. “I work for a major fashion house. I can’t just… go off and do my own thing. We have to have consistency across the brand.”

“I have—“ Lucien starts, but he is cut off by Thomas’s quiet _oh no_ as his dads approach. It’s too early for Lucien to meet his parents. He doesn’t even know if the man considers this a date, or if he’s still gathering information for his court case.

“Lovely work, Tommy!” James says, clapping him on the back. Francis pulls him into a hug, misty-eyed.

“Who’s your friend, son?” He asks when he pulls away. Thomas looks over his shoulder, once again dragging his gaze slowly—appreciatively—up the length of Lucien’s body and his delectable outfit.

Lucien introduces himself and sticks out a hand. “I am his date tonight,” he says.

“Oho, and a French one, too! Classic Tommy, eh Francis?” James claps Lucien on the shoulder in delight.

“He’s Uncle John’s lawyer,” Thomas says. He figures it would come out sooner or later.

Francis scowls. “That man’s hubris knows no bounds.”

“He can’t possible win. War crimes? _Really?_ ” James shakes his head as he snorts out an undignified laugh.

Lucien does not join in. “He will win,” he says. “I am the best at what I do in all of Paris.”

The confidence rolls off him in waves, and Thomas feels the heat rising in his cheeks. Lucien calling himself Thomas’s date was a surprise, but one Thomas had hoped for. A warmth blossoms in his stomach when Lucien wraps an arm around his waist.

“Wait,” James says, “you weren’t involved in sending that cop to prison, were you? His name was something dreadfully French, wasn’t it, dear?”

Francis opens his suit jacket and pulls his Blackberry out of his pocket. “D’Artagnan!” he says, jabbing at the screen with a finger.

Lucien smiles, and there’s a vicious edge to it that sets Thomas’s insides aflame.

“He is out now, of course, but I will not hesitate to put him and his friends back where they belong if the opportunity presents itself.”

“All cops are bastards,” James says solemnly.

“So is your Uncle John,” Francis adds.

“He’s old, Francis!”

“Too old to be accusing our son’s employer of war crimes! What if Lucien here _does_ win? Will Tommy still have a job?”

“Dad!” Thomas says.

“Right, right. Well, we had best go congratulate Sophy. You’ll call on Sunday, Tommy?”

“Yes, dad.”

“Good boy,” Francis says. He pulls him into a hug before being dragged across the hall to where the models are mingling near the curtain.

“So, you’ve met my parents,” Thomas says. “I’m dreadfully sorry for it. I would have warned you.”

“Shall we, then?” Lucien gestures at the door.

Thomas nods, expecting to be led outside towards the row of black taxis that line the curb. Instead, Lucien heads towards one of the corner doors of the mansion behind them. He glances behind him, then pulls a utility knife out of his pocket and jimmies the lock. Thomas shakes his head in disbelief, but ducks inside the building anyways.

“What are we doing here?” The door closes behind him, and the lights from outside cast long shadows on the carpeted floor of the room they’re in.

“You should quit your job,” Lucien says. Thomas was half expecting to be pinned against the wall and ravished. He doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment.

“Why would I do that?” he says coldly.

“Your father was right. You do not want to be working for a convicted war criminal.”

“He threw a jumper at my uncle’s head, Lucien.”

“The truth does not matter. Only what people choose to see.”

“And you want me to quit? Why? Out of concern for my career? Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get here? Years of hard work, sleepless nights, blistered fingers and wounded pride, all to have my career threatened by a slimy lawyer with misplaced morals? No. I won’t hear it.”

“They’re holding you back, Thomas. You are more talented than you know. Leave Ralph Lauren and start your own company.”

Thomas leans back against the window. “You say that like it’s easy.”

Lucien leans into him, arms on either side of his head, bracketing him against the window. “It won’t be. It will be more sleepless nights. More hard work. But it will be yours. You should not hide in the shadows. You deserve to be seen. To be known. To be admired.”

Thomas looks up at him from where he has shrunken down against the door, a strange cant to his mouth. “And will you be one of my admirers?”

In answer, Lucien leans in closer and presses his lips against Thomas’s.

“I’m not the kind of man who does this sort of thing, you know,” Thomas says in the car on the way to Lucien’s flat.

“And yet, here you are.”

Thomas smiles at his reflection in the passenger window. “Here I am.”

Lucien’s flat is more a penthouse than a flat. Located at the top of a modern tower building, the open concept living space has two walls of windows that look out over the twinkling London skyline. Despite the sheer extravagance of the size and location, the furniture is mismatched in a way that Thomas finds charmingly eccentric.

“Louis’ furniture from last season,” Lucien grunts. He gestures at the gaudy red and gold baroque settee and the end table carved in the shape of a peacock, the flat portion of it useless for its miniscule size. There is a massive oil painting hanging on the wall, but Lucien has a collage of posters, advertising bands Thomas has never heard of, thumbtacked over the portrait. Just enough of it remains uncovered to suggest that one of the men depicted in the painting is Feron. Thomas recognizes the gold spokes on his wheelchair.

The rest of the furniture is sleek and modern with clean, practical lines. Thomas gets the feeling that this is what Lucien chose for himself. He has good taste.

“Do you live here alone?” Thomas asks. He nods at the poster-covered portrait.

“Feron insisted,” Lucien says. “It was his vacation home. He no longer uses it.”

Thomas lifts up the corner of a poster advertising a pair of bands playing in Marseille called _Bad Breeding_ and _The Spitters_. “I wish I lived alone,” he says. “I have seven flatmates.”

“Seven?”

“Billy, Billy’s ex-boyfriend Cornelius, Cornelius’s current boyfriend Solomon, and Sol’s other boyfriend Tommy have the downstairs rooms, then I’m upstairs with Harry and John—married couple, they’re the only decent ones—and Ed Genge. And Ed’s four cats.”

Lucien fills a glass with water from the refrigerator. “It sounds loud.”

Thomas smiles. “This is the first bit of quiet I’ve had in months.”

“Am I spoiling it?” Lucien looks at him for a second before tilting his head back and drinking his water. Thomas watches the line of his throat, thinking about tracing the bob of his adam’s apple with his tongue.

Thomas sidles closer. “Maybe tonight,” he says, as Lucien puts down the glass, “I don’t feel like being quiet.”

He feels bold when he leans in and kisses Lucien, despite having already gone home with him. But the kiss changes something, pushes him over the threshold, and when Lucien pushes him down on his bed, Thomas rises to meet him.

“I must return to Paris in two days’ time,” Lucien says three days later. They’d left the apartment only once, stopping by Thomas’s flat to pick up some clothes and his toothbrush, and now Thomas is once again tucked in his bed, wet hair from a shared bath plastered against his forehead. “When the trial is over I will return.”

Thomas rolls over onto his stomach and props his chin up on a hand. “I guess I’ll see you when you get back?”

“Stay here,” Lucien waves at the penthouse walls. “It seems a waste for it not to be enjoyed. It will be quiet for you.”

Thomas’s eyes narrow and he pulls himself up until he is kneeling beside Lucien. “Are you offering to be my sugar daddy?”

“I do not know that phrase, Tommy.”

Thomas pulls him down on the bed by a shoulder and throws a leg over his middle, pinning him against the bedspread. He leans down to nuzzle at Lucien’s good ear.

“Are you trying to purchase my affections? Buy me pretty things so I’ll stay? Offer me a house and a bed that I’ll keep warm for you?”

Lucien sits up, pushing Thomas off to one side. “Affections?”

“Yes, darling. I have affections.”

Lucien glares down at the bedspread. “I would want your affections to be given, not taken.”

Spreading his limbs out on the king-sized bed, Thomas flops down on top of him like a starfish. He rests his head on a shoulder, looking up at Lucien. “What d’you mean?”

“Stay, if you want. And I will come back to you.”

“Oh,” Thomas says. He rolls off and sits leaning against the headboard. “I’d like that, Lucien.” He nudges Lucien’s leg with a toe, and it’s then that Lucien remembers that Thomas is wearing nothing but a borrowed nightshirt. He bends his knees up in invitation, and as the fabric slides up an olive-toned thigh, Lucien thinks that Thomas understands him better than he understands himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Two years later, Lucien looks up from his work and realizes he is living someone else’s domestic fantasy. His office is immaculately neat, from the bookshelves to the filing cabinet to the files on his computer, a product of his practicality and Tommy’s decorating. Their flat isn’t big, but it has an office for him to work from home (Louis is _finally_ dead, thank God, and he didn’t even have a hand in it), a bedroom that fits a queen bed (he and Tommy compromised on the size), and a beautiful, sunny kitchen that currently betrays the dire situation in their home: the pantry is nearly empty. But that is okay, because today is Saturday. On Saturdays at 3pm, he and Tommy go grocery shopping.

It is quarter to 3, and Tommy is still upstairs.

The loft was why they bought the house. It is lit by a skylight that gives Tommy’s studio enough light to work during the day, and strung with bright fluorescent lights that light the entire flat at night. The light illuminates as far as their bedroom on nights when Tommy is working late, but Lucien does not shut the door. He likes to listen to the hum and rattle of the sewing machine, the hiss of the iron, the pleased sounds that his Tommy makes when he pins something on the mannequin that he is satisfied with. The light doesn’t bother him as much as Tommy’s success comforts him, so he has learned to deal with it. And then the lights turn off, and the sound of Tommy’s slippered feet padding down the stairs gives him a feeling of peace that he has never known before the first time Tommy slid into bed beside him and kissed him on the cheek.

He always considered domestic life a waste of time. Domestic life with Tommy is something else entirely.

Except that Lucien is hungry, and he wants to get going so he can buy a rotisserie chicken and make his weekly rotisserie chicken sandwich. (They eat mostly vegetarian these days.)

“Tommy,” he calls. The sewing machine stops with a clunk and Tommy lets out a strangled yell. Imagining something horrible, like his beloved Thomas trapped under the industrial machine or one of the wretched beat cops—the Musketeers, he calls them, both for their stupid hats and aggrandizing attempts at chivalry—scaling the vines outside and kidnapping Thomas just to make his life miserable.

Tommy is on his knees on the floor, surrounded by glass-head pins.

“My pin dish fell over,” he moans. On the dress form, there is a half-finished mock-up of what will become a dark red leather jacket. The muslin droops off the mannequin at the shoulder seam where Tommy was pinning it. Lucien crouches down and starts scooping up the pins. They stab his hands, but he doesn’t feel it. His heart is stabbed by the despair in Thomas’s eyes.

“Come. Sit,” Lucien says. Thomas makes no move to stand, so Lucien picks him up and deposits him on the white chaise, putting him down next to a pile of black shiny fabric.

“The show is in two days, love. I don’t have time to fuck up my jacket.”

“You dropped some pins on the floor, Tommy. You have made no mistakes.”

Thomas pulls Lucien down to sit next to him. He rests his head on Lucien’s thigh. “I think I’m stressed.”

“You are strong, chéri. You have done so much by yourself.”

Thomas closes his eyes. He looks exhausted; the skin under his eyes is thin and purple, his eyes bloodshot, his hands covered in scratches from pins.

Lucien bites the inside of his cheek, and says what he has always dreaded saying: “You sleep. I will go to the store and buy groceries by myself.”

Tommy cracks an eyelid. “Really?”

“Only if you sleep while I am gone.”

“What if you need help?”

“I will have the grocery list.”

The look on Tommy’s face is dubious. “Are you sure?”

“I have been buying cheese and bread for my whole life, Tommy.”

“And not much else! You didn’t know how to operate a toaster when I met you, Lucien.”

“I had a toaster oven. Easier to make sandwiches in.”

“Just…” Thomas relaxes into the chaise, arching his back like a cat and rubbing his cheek against the leg of Lucien’s black jeans, “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”

Lucien scratches Tommy’s hair, just behind the ear when he likes it. His hair is greasy; it sticks out in a tuft when Lucien takes his hand away. It doesn’t matter though, because Tommy always smells wonderful. Fresh and earthy, like a forest after a rainfall. Lucien said that to Feron once, who then went on to wax poetic about how trees cause him great pain because they’re tall, or something. It was a relief when he retired. (Feron’s retirement was sped up by Lucien’s sword-shaped letter opener impaling itself in his thigh.)

“I will call you if I need anything, Tommy. I will be back soon.”

But Tommy is already asleep.

The grocery store is busy. It’s always busy on Saturdays. If Tommy didn’t live and die by his personal calendar, Lucien would suggest another day. Maybe a Tuesday evening would be nice.

(Tuesday evening is sushi night. Tommy doesn’t call it ‘sushi & sex night’ like Lucien suggested, since they always end up flushed and sweaty in each other’s arms. “I like to pretend to be surprised,” Tommy had said, then gasped and pretended to struggle when Lucien picked him up and carried him to the bedroom for a proper ravishing.)

He parks the car at the edge of the parking lot, hoping no one will be stupid enough to park next to him. The last time he found a door ding on the side of his black Lexus he slashed two of the tires on the offending vehicle with the knife he keeps in his boot (the drivers’ side back and the passenger side front; that way, the owner would have to replace all four tires while knowing they were getting rid of two perfectly good tires). He doesn’t _like_ doing these things, but if you let people fuck around, they won’t stop with door dings.

Lucien locks the car. Picks up a cart. Takes out the list and reads it over. _Oat milk,_ it says first. He knows this one. Oat milk should be with the milk, but it isn’t. It’s in the organic section. Lucien walks through the automatic doors, head held high, Tommy’s grocery list tucked in the kangaroo pouch of his Rage Against the Machine hoodie. His phone is in the front pocket of his black jeans, just in case.

The fluorescent lights shine down aggressively when he walks in through the doors. Stacks of fruit stand before him, mocking him with their wide selection and affordable prices. He ignores them for now. Tommy wrote oat milk first, so it must be important. The organic section is in the back of the store, and he stalks forward, pushing his cart with an intensity that rivals Sisyphus rolling his stone up the mountain. He opens the fridge door and puts a carton of plain oat milk in his cart. Lucien nods at it, victorious. The next item on the list is _cheese (something smoked, preferably soft)._ Tommy loves cheese. He will not let him down.

Thomas wakes up to the buzzing of his phone, still tucked in the back pocket of his comfy (yet stylish) sewing pants.

“Lucien?” he asks, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He really shouldn’t be napping. Not with two days until his first runway show. He needs to cut and sew the entire maroon leather jacket. He calls it ‘The Lucien Jacket’ in his mind because his darling would look absolutely stunning in it. Thomas is going to gift it to him after the show and then take him for a night out at the horse races.

(Lucien knows a guy who knows another guy who is afraid of Feron and therefore rigs the races for Lucien. He gets to swindle rich blokes all night while Thomas drinks wine, and then they both get to go down to the stables and pet the horses—they’re checking on their welfare, Lucien says, but Lucien doesn’t know as much about horses as he says he does. Thomas is certain he just likes to pet their soft snouts and whisper soft French endearments into their manes.)

He answers the phone once he sees that it’s a FaceTime from Lucien.

“Is everything alright?”

“Tommy, qu’est-ce que Gruyere?”

Lucien is staring into the front camera on his phone, eyes narrowed, holding a block of cheese in his free hand.

“It’s a cheese, love.”

“Is this the one you want?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Is there a smoked Gouda?” Lucien looks away to scan the cheese display.

“Soft Gouda only.”

Thomas curses under his breath. Lucien hears him and looks at him with concern. “I will go to another store to get your cheese.”

“No! No, it’s fine. What about Havarti?”

“Herb and garlic or sundried tomato?”

Thomas makes a face.

“Ah!” Lucien reaches forward. Through the camera, Thomas can only see his look of triumph turn to one of irritation.

“I need that cheese,” Lucien says.

“There’s plenty more,” another voice says.

“You misunderstand me,” Lucien says. He had his murder voice on. Thomas wonders if he should hang up before he is liable to become an accessory to murder. “I need _that_ cheese.”

The camera shakes, and there is a cry of pain. “My boyfriend does not like herb and garlic in his cheese,” Lucien says. He comes back on screen. “I have found your cheese, Tommy.”

“I love you,” Thomas says. Not many men would break a middle-aged white man’s kneecap in broad daylight to get him his third-favourite cheese.

“Yes,” Lucien says, which Thomas understands to mean _I love you, I cherish you, and you are my entire world but I am a man with a fork in a world made of soup and I do not understand how to emote in a way that is understandable to anyone who isn’t you._ “I will be fine now, Tommy. Go back to sleep.”

He must have noticed Thomas’s hands slowly edging over towards his pincushion. Properly chastised, Thomas lies back down on the chaise and closes his eyes.

“Good,” Lucien says, and hangs up.

He manages to find a loaf of bread that looks similar to what Tommy usually buys. Good. Lucien needs a victory after waking Tommy up because of the Cheese Issue. The next item is apples. Lucien turns back to the dreaded fruit and veg section. He can see apples in the distance. Next to them are more apples. And on the other side of the display: more apples. He takes a deep breath and goes in for a closer look.

Thomas has just barely drifted off to sleep when his phone rings again. He fumbles with it for a second before swiping to answer Lucien’s incoming FaceTime. He looks angry.

“Tommy, there are twelve different types of apples in this store.”

“Anything except Red Delicious is fine, love.”

“I am sorry for waking you. I do not want to fail you.”

Thomas sits up. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “It’s just grocery shopping, darling. You’re not on a great quest.”

“It feels like it,” Lucien mumbles, then glares at someone off-screen.

“Okay, which apples are you standing in front of now? Get those ones.”

“They are not Red Delicious. I will get the Pink Lady variety.”

“Perfect, darling.” This time, Thomas hangs up. He can feel the edge of sleep creep up on him, so he lies back down and drifts off into a dream about dancing with Lucien in an orchard.

Lucien admits that the apples were a challenge. Before, he’d just grab the ones at the front of the store and be done with it, but he has fallen too easily into the role of “cart-pusher” while Tommy—beautiful, talented, incredible Tommy with his detailed grocery list and book of delicious recipes—picks out the food they need for the coming week. Lucien can cook, yes, but the secret to French cooking is to use copious amounts of butter and hold a deep understanding of the Five Mother Sauces. He could make a sponge taste good if it was soaked in his Bechamel sauce.

“But imagine if it wasn’t a sponge,” Tommy had said, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. Lucien had parried with a whisk. Five minutes later, the sauce was abandoned on the stove and Tommy was surrendering to another of Lucien’s ‘swords.’

Baking, though, is another story. Lucien hates baking. Tommy likes making cookies, and for that, he needs semi-sweet chocolate chips (medium sized). He’d used up the last bag just days earlier, melting them and spreading the chocolate across his chest, inviting Lucien to lick him clean.

The bulk baking goods aisle was abandoned quickly after Lucien pushed his cart in front of the chocolate chips. There they were. Dark chocolate chips (medium sized). He consults the list to double-check. _Semi-sweet chocolate chips (medium sized)._ Dark chocolate? Semi-sweet chocolate? Lucien looks around. There are no bins labeled semi-sweet chocolate chips (medium sized). He looks up and down the aisle. No one will see his shame. Quickly, Lucien reaches into the bin and grabs a handful of chocolate chips, shoveling them into his mouth. The logic is sound—he is a lawyer, after all. If dark chocolate chips (medium sized) taste the same as the chocolate he licked off Thomas’s collarbone two days ago, they will be acceptable.

They don’t taste as good.

Lucien takes out his phone. His lock screen is a candid photo of him and Thomas (taken secretly by Gaston) at the V&A museum in London. Thomas is holding his hand and pointing out something in the display case. They are both smiling. He cannot fail his beloved Thomas, but nor can he wake him up again. He puts the phone away and takes a handful of chocolate out of the next bin. It’s closer, but still not right. The next bin contains something foul called ‘carob chips’, so he spits them out and kicks them under the shelf. Finally, he finds a bin called ‘baking chocolate chips (medium sized)’. They taste like the chocolate he licked off Tommy, but without the intoxicating taste of Thomas underneath. They should make chocolate that tastes like him. Jopson chocolate chips, medium sized. Carob chips would become obsolete, never to offend his taste buds again.

Lucien fills a bag with baking chocolate chips (medium sized) and continues on his way.

He finds the tofu, kale, orange curry paste, and “Whole Roasted Chicken for Lucien’s Weekend Sandwiches” without issue. There are only two items left: _strawberries (?)_ and _Corn Flakes._

The question mark usually means that the item is not imperative, but Tommy is stressed, so Tommy is getting strawberries. Lucien stalks back to the produce aisle and puts three cartons of strawberries in his cart. Tommy is going to get so many strawberries, and Lucien is going to feed them to him in a decidedly sexy way. He makes a quick detour to pick up a pineapple: the last one was thrown out the window at Officer Athos’s head when he was bothering the nice social worker who was trying to teach the homeless about socialism. It had knocked him unconscious for a full three minutes. It was a fine use for a pineapple, at least until Thomas had asked him where the pineapple was. Lucien said he donated it to the local police force.

Just in case of another fruit-related assault opportunity, Lucien picks up a second pineapple.

Finally, he is at the end of the list. Corn Flakes. A funny thing, really, because Thomas doesn’t particularly like Corn Flakes. Lucien finds them and picks up the white box. Then, a yellow tag catches his eye. Count Chocula is on sale. In his other hand, he picks up the box with the cartoon vampire hovering over a bowl of chocolate cereal. He knows what Tommy asked for, but he also knows what Tommy wants. His deliberation is interrupted by his phone ringing.

He answers it.

“Lucien? Is everything okay?”

Tommy sounds worried. And worse, he doesn’t sound like he had just woken up from a power nap.

“Everything is fine, chéri. I am finished now.”

“Oh, good.” Thomas breathes a sigh of relief. “Did you have to dodge the old lady?”

Lucien snorts. “I have not seen her. Or her wretched grandson.”

“I’m sure Dave is a perfectly nice man.”

“He is a snake.”

“He might be now, since you ran over both his feet with the grocery cart.”

Lucien smiles wickedly at the box of Count Chocula. The old lady’s grandson had deserved it, making a move on Thomas right in front of him while he was locked in a verbal battle with his grandmother.

“Well, get out while you can, love. I’ll see you soon. I miss you.”

“It has been—“ Lucien checks his watch—“thirty-five minutes since I left.”

“And I miss you. Hurry back, will you?”

“Of course, Tommy. You are my entire world.”

He hangs up, and tosses the Count Chocula in the cart.

“Where is your handsome friend today?” a voice behind him says in English. He recognizes the thick Ukrainian accent right away and swears under his breath. The old lady stands in front of him, steely gaze staring right into the depths of his soul.

“My _future husband_ is at home,” Lucien says. “We had so much sex last night he cannot walk without begging once again for my cock.” He says the last part in rapid French, just to fuck with her.

“Have you finally done it, then? Is darling Thomas off the market?” She leans against her cart, which is filled with an unbelievable amount of pickles.

“He has been with me for two years,” Lucien says. Two years together, and one year and one month with a pair of black and gold wedding rings hidden in Lucien’s desk drawer. He’s going to ask Thomas after his show: pull him aside to somewhere quiet, like he did at Somerset House the first time they kissed, drop to a knee and ask, as simply and plainly as he can, if Tommy would marry him.

The old lady waves a hand. “I wish he had agreed to go out with my grandson. He’s an electrician, you know.”

Lucien did know. She mentioned her handsome electrician grandson named Dave every single Saturday. She started bringing him with her a few months ago, pretending to be shocked every time they ran into Lucien and Thomas in the soup aisle. She would distract Lucien with a fight over Hollandaise sauce while Dave—the villain—flirted with Thomas. Finally, Lucien had to take matters into his own hands. He ran Dave over with the shopping cart and threatened to murder him with his grandmother’s collection of pickle jars. He never spoke to Thomas again.

“He’s such a nice boy,” the old lady says. “You don’t deserve him.” She eyes his hoodie and black jeans with distaste. He returns the glare, silently judging the clashing patterns on her babushka and her muumuu.

“Fuck off,” Lucien says, and walks to the checkout. He has a future husband to get home to.

“I didn’t sleep,” Thomas says. He unloads the groceries slowly, as if he’s in a trance.

“I know,” Lucien answers. He tosses the vegetables in the fridge, and then looks forlornly at the hot rotisserie chicken. But his Rotisserie Chicken Weekend Sandwiches can wait. He takes Thomas by the hand and pulls him towards their bedroom. “It’s easier to sleep together,” he says.

Tommy doesn’t protest. He just slips under the blankets and buries a hand in Lucien’s hair. Face-to-face, Lucien can feel Thomas’s breath on his cheeks, and he lets the sound of Thomas’s breathing lull him into a comfortable sleep.


End file.
